


Full Circle

by thepriceswepaid



Series: Recovery is always a work in progress [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, PTSD, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum, Pre-Serum, Sickness, Stucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:32:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepriceswepaid/pseuds/thepriceswepaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times one of them took care of the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bucky

**Author's Note:**

> Oh and if you don’t mind another one from me, pre serum where Bucky is sick and Steve is actually a really good doctor (because hes gotten the hang of it since he’s almost always sick himself) -- inktaire

It’s usually like this. It’s winter, the snow just starting to fall in large, wet clumps across the sidewalk and everyone is hurrying to get home before it starts to ice over. And like usual, one of them is sprawled out on the sofa, coughing and struggling to breathe.

 

The twist is that for once, Steve thinks as he boils more water, it isn’t him. Bucky groans, shifting and trying to get comfortable. They have every comforter piled on the couch because Bucky flat out refused to move from where he had collapsed after he’d dragged himself up four flights of stairs.

 

Steve stirred the water and dumped in a handful of thyme, letting it steep. Bucky sniffled pathetically while he waited the ten minutes and strained the tea into a mug. He took it to him, sitting on the couch right next to his best friend and pressing it into his hands. He was clammy, and feverish. He frowned, covering his larger hands with his own and helping him drink before he fell back on the couch. “‘m fine, Stevie,” he said, trying to move and nearly falling off the couch in a tangle of blankets.

 

“You’re not fine,” he said mildly, reaching out and touching his forehead. It burned and Bucky let out a soft moan. “Your hands…” he murmured. “S’cold.” He leaned into the touch, almost whimpering when Steve tried to move them away.

 

“You’ve got a fever, Buck,” he said softly. He’d been making him eat -- little bits he could manage -- but mostly he’d been drinking a lot of tea to soothe his throat from the constant coughing. They didn’t have much money, couldn’t afford a doctor, but Steve knew what to do. Normally it’d be Bucky doing this for him, after all.

 

He got up from the sofa to grab a change of sheets, more tea, and something for the fever when he was stopped as a hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. “Stay,” he slurred, fingers tightening in a weak hold.

 

“Gotta get you something for that fever, jerk,” he said carefully, trying to get away. The grip tightened and Bucky pinned him down with a look. He shouldn’t look that gorgeous, lying carelessly sprawled across their ancient sofa with his shirt unbuttoned to the waist and his eyes fever-bright, lips parted and face flushed.

 

Steve really shouldn’t want to kiss him.

 

Instead he lets himself be pulled back, settling back down next to him and grabbing a cool cloth to run it over his brow. Bucky turns his head, coughing harshly, but his grip stays just as firm. “Jus’ stay. ‘ll be fine…” he says as he starts to drift off. He shook himself awake almost stubbornly and Steve smiled.

 

“Move over,” he says after a minute. Bucky tries. It takes him a moment before he finally just throws himself against the back of the sofa. Steve kicked off his shoes, lying down next to him on the cramped space. His head is almost on Bucky’s shoulder, almost resting on the cool cloths he has dropped across his chest. He’ll have to change those soon. Bucky was still far too warm, but he stopped caring about that as an arm wound tiredly around his waist and pulled him closer. “You know, those washcloths are better,” he said with a smirk.

 

“Tired of being cold,” Bucky grumbled, burying his face in his neck. Steve tried not to think too much of it. “Love you for this, punk. Sorry, you’re gonna get sick ‘cause of me,” he said as he began to drift off.

 

“Then you’ll just have to take care of me,” Steve pointed out, reaching up and running his fingers through sweat-damp hair.

 

“Don’t I always?” Bucky muttered. Steve just smiled, watching him doze off.

  
“Love you too, jerk.”


	2. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is sick, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [inktaire](inktaire.tumblr.com).

Steve was sick again. 

 

It had started off as a mild cold, but  by the end of the week he was so weak from coughing he could barely get out of bed. Bucky was sweating bullets, pulling every extra job he could to get money for food, medicine, blankets, _anything._ He’d already burned through his meager savings, and now he was eyeing the rent money. Steve was huddled up on the couch, wrapped up in blankets and quiet. He was sleeping, but Bucky kept checking on him, reassured every time he saw the slight rise and fall of his chest. 

 

He _couldn’t_ lose him. He went to the kitchen and rummaged around for the near-empty tin of coffee, making it too strong when his hands shook. He nearly dropped the mug and ran back to the room when he heard a weak cough, but steeled himself until he’d set it down, then walked calmly. “Hey, buddy,” he said with a crooked grin. “Lazy bum. Thought you were never gonna wake up.” His face must have betrayed how worried he was, because Steve fixed him with a stern look. 

 

“Jus' a cold, Buck,” he said tiredly, struggling to sit up. Bucky moved to help him sit up, an arm around his shoulders as he supported him. Steve sighed and leaned into him, head on his shoulder. “Hate bein’ sick,” he grumbled. 

 

“I know you do,” Bucky said soothingly, getting a cloth and laying it over his forehead and chest before getting the tea he remembered Steve making him. God, it smelled as odd as it had tasted but he remembered it had worked a miracle on him. He pressed the mug into his hands and stood there until Steve had downed all of it. He wrapped him back up in the blankets and watched him nod off again, a few fingers of dread working themselves free from his chest. 

 

Bucky could do a lot of things, but he couldn’t survive without Steve to anchor him. And that, in essence, _was_ Steve. He was an anchor - he’d plant himself and refuse to move, making other people move around him. Hell, if he were a bigger guy Bucky wouldn’t want to tangle with him. But Bucky didn’t have that kind of strength. He did anything he could to get by, and sometimes he needed Steve to pull him back when he went too far. A world without Steve to pull him back wasn’t a world worth living in. 

 

He jumped a smile when Steve reached out and tugged on his hand in his sleep, and he realized he’d been standing there watching him for the past few minutes. He set the cloth down and picked him up. It was distressingly easy to carry him to the bedroom and set him down on his bed. Even then, Steve still wouldn’t let go of his hand. “Alright,” Bucky laughed softly. “I can take a hint.” He kicked off his shoes and pants, letting them fall to the floor before he moved them both under the blankets.

 

It was hot as hell, and he was sweating bad but the way Steve curled into him, he knew he needed it so he stayed. “Buck…” He looked up, eyes meeting feverish blues. “Thanks…” 

“Don’t mention it,” he said, twisting and pressing a kiss to his forehead without thinking. He froze, but Steve was already curling impossibly closer and drifting off. 

“You’re the best… Jerk,” he yawned.

 

“Love you, too, punk.”


	3. Steve II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything starts to come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, this chapter is very disjointed - it's intentional, to mirror a bit of what's going on in Bucky's mind. The next chapter will be the last.

It was all a mess of sensations in his head. Noises, faces, _decades_ blurred together in a hazy mess and the only constant was the dull throb in his bones from the metal embedded there. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t in pain. They kept him caged when he was between missions, and muzzled like a dog when he wasn’t. When they put him under, they told him he wouldn’t dream.

They were lying.

He couldn’t remember them when he woke up, not fully. The things he remembered weren’t enough.  _Piercing eyes and laughter. The smell of thyme, clean linen, and pencil shavings._ It didn’t matter how many times they wiped him, the dreams didn’t fade. It wasn’t until he was fighting the man on the bridge that another part slotted into place. 

_Blue eyes._

“Bucky?” 

_I know that name._

"Who the hell is Bucky?”

They wiped him when he asked about it. He wasn’t surprised. It was just confirmation of something he was slowly piecing together in his shattered, scarred mind. And they almost took that realization from him, ripped it out, patched him up, and ordered him back into the field. As he watched the shield fall away from the crumbling remains of the helicarrier, he felt something in him fall with it.

 _"You're my friend.”_  

 _“You’re my mission!”_  

 _“Then finish it. ‘Cause I’m with ya, ’til the end of the line.”_ And then he let _him_ fall, unable to react in time. He slipped right through his fingers, falling into the Potomac as he watched in shell-shocked horror. 

 _“So, are you ready to follow_ **_Captain America_ ** _into the jaws of death?"  
_ _“Hell no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him.  
_ _…But you’re keeping the outfit, right?”  
_ _"You know what? It's kinda grown on me.”_

He let go of the twisted metal and fell. Panic, thick and choking, shot through him and he remembered the last time he’d heard that name. He’d been falling then, too. He twisted as he slammed into the water, reaching for him and dragging him up. He left him on the shore after he made sure he was breathing, disappearing into the crowds. Days later he found himself in a museum, and that night found him ducking the security around the man’s— _Steve’s —_ apartment and slipping inside.  

He was lying on the bed, bandaged and stitched and god it made him feel guilty. He still couldn’t remember everything, things coming back in waves, but without the constant conditioning everything was beginning to come back. He took a step and a floorboard groaned under his weight. Steve’s eyes snapped open. He froze.

“Here to finish you mission?” He asked, sitting up with great effort. He could only nod, hands clenching in his pockets. “Then finish it,” he said, closing his eyes again, resigned. Bucky crossed the room, taking everything in as he walked. He saw the first aid kit scattered across the dresser and went to it, taking out bandages, cotton pads, and tape. He took them over to the bed and dropped them on the side. Steve’s eyes flew open when he felt Bucky’s hand — flesh — touch one of the bandages and gently peel it off. He watched in silence as the other made sure each and every one was clean, and re-bandaged them with steady, sure fingers. 

“…I still hate being sick, or… Well, injured,” Steve murmured, watching him.

“You were always sick, or injured,” he said, voice low and rough. Bucky worked slowly, checking everything with the same precision he used to take out a target between heartbeats. He tossed the bloody bandages in the trash when he was done and looked at him, reaching out to touch the cuts on his face with his flesh hand. He flinched, frowning as he looked at his own handiwork. He moved to go before a hand shot out, closing around his wrist in a warm, firm grip and he froze. 

“Bucky,” Steve said easily, tugging him back. _“Stay.”_


	4. James I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely new, but different.

_Being a former assassin is a lot like being an alcoholic - you never fully get over it, and it takes an entire support group to keep you in check when your demons spiral out of control. But you move on, and you get stronger. Temptation and old habits are hard to ignore or break, but you take them, and you tear them down, build on the foundations, and make something better for yourself._

It’s not a bad analogy, he thinks to himself, staring in the mirror and dragging his metal hand through messy brown hair. He’s been staring at the same mirror for what feels like hours, though his over-trained mind knows is only thirty minutes. He’s supposed to be downstairs and ready in fifteen. He sighs, shaking his head and not even bothering with the longer strands that slip free, falling in his eyes. He won’t be ready in time, not that anyone expects him to be.

He’s reasonably sure they don’t even expect him to go. The kid that had loved parties and dance halls had died falling off that train, disappearing off somewhere with the one that had gone into the ice seventy five years ago. The one that had clawed his way out of the snow and ice, then back out of the dark depths of his own mind shied away from crowds and loud noises. And Stark’s parties promised a whole lotta both. 

He stares at the face in front of him with a frown, studying what he saw in his reflection. James. He went by James now. Bucky was dead and Winter was buried. James seemed like a fresh start, like something he could grow into. He drops down on the bed, feeling the frame groan in protest under his weight. He’s a goddamn mess, he doesn’t care what anyone says. Maybe he should even go. It’s not like they would miss him, would want hi-

He jerks as the door handle turns and slides open, relaxing at the familiar footfalls on the hardwood. He lets Steve sit next to him and drops his head on his shoulder, grateful when the other doesn’t say a damn word. They sit like that, letting the seconds tick by. Steve eventually snakes an arm around his waist and James closes his eyes. He doesn’t complain when Steve gets to his feet and brings him up with him, just lets him do what he wants. He’s surprised when Steve stars _undoing_ buttons, though. “What—“

“I figured you’d be more comfortable, out of this monkey suit.” He frowns in confusion and those fingers stop. They’re still a little out of sync, still getting back in a rhythm with each other, but James knows the other is required to be there tonight. “You sayin’ you don’t want me there for your big night, punk?”

“No,” Steve says carefully, words unhurried and even, like he’s defusing a bomb. Maybe he is. James is pretty sure he doesn’t know what he is or needs anymore, but whatever Steve is trying to do, it’s calming him down. Guess that means it’s working. “I’m saying you don’t have to go.” Which is exactly what he’d been thinking, been leaning towards, but hearing it from Steve makes it suddenly… It sounds like maybe it would be okay. 

All the fight, and the tension, seeps out of him and his shoulders slump. “Sorry, guess the whole gala thing’s still—“

“Not your cup of coffee?” The blond finishes. “Too loud, too many people. I don’t blame you.” James takes a closer look at him, seeing lines that he knows weren’t there before, a sense of fatigue he hasn’t shook off since the double tap of D.C. and then Eastern Europe. That stops him in his tracks. Present a kid with a new idea and whatever’s bothering them will be forgotten, he thinks then. Steve is still talking but his fingers haven’t moved. Something about how he doesn’t really want to go either, could use a break, too, so he understands. The irony of everything hits him, then. He used to think he was always the one taking care of Steve. That that was his job. It occurs to him, now, that they only work when they take care of each other. And that’s what this is, Steve taking care of him again.

He reaches up, his hand resting over Steve’s as he tugs it away from the dress shirt and carefully redoes the tiny buttons. “Then maybe we can… both look out for each other.” The way his boyfriend’s face lights up, he knows he said the right thing. He gives him a tired smile and reaches for his jacket. He’ll be okay, he thinks. No, he knows. When they walk downstairs a few minutes later he doesn’t check his messy hair in the mirror, and lets Steve guide him into one of the waiting cars with a warm hand. He kisses his cheek and sits back. Doesn’t matter what happens next, because they’ve made it this far together, they’ll handle it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr with the same username. Leave me some love.


End file.
